Prologue: Loop Zero
The night before the fight, Kazuki stayed late at the gym—pads off, gloves loose, sweat drying like salt across his shoulders. He didn't spar. He just hit the bag. Over and over. Elbow. Jab. Shift. Again. Not because he needed it. Because he couldn't sleep without it.
Coach had left an hour ago. Lights were low. The only sound was the echo of leather kissing canvas and his own breath—measured, short, sharp. Controlled. Like everything else in his life had to be.
There was no crowd in his head. No hype. Just the rhythm. Just the silence after the impact.
That was peace. For someone like him, it always had been.
Until the kid showed up again.
"Kazu…?" A hesitant voice. Young. Still cracking. "You still here?"
Kazuki turned, unwrapping his right hand as he did. "Yo, Haruto. What are you doing back here?"
The teen stood awkward in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, gym bag dangling off one shoulder. One eye swollen from sparring. Bandaged knuckles. But still holding himself like someone trying to mimic a warrior.
"Thought maybe you'd wanna grab something to eat," Haruto said. Then quickly added, "If not, it's cool. I just… y'know, figured."
Kazuki grinned. Not the fake, promotional smile he wore at weigh-ins. A real one—small, lopsided, tired. "You asking me out, or trying to dodge curfew?"
"I'm just saying fighters gotta eat."
Kazuki walked over, clapped a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Then fighters gotta work their jab first. You drop your elbow again tomorrow, I'm making you throw one thousand straight into a wall."
Haruto groaned. "I swear you've got some kind of fetish for suffering."
"Pain's honest." Kazuki's voice was low. Calm. "That's why I like this place. World out there? Lot of liars. In here? You eat what you earn."
The kid paused. Looked up at him. "Hey, Kazu. You ever think about, like… why you do this?"
Kazuki blinked. That was rare. He ran a towel over his neck. "What, fight?"
"Yeah. Like, if you're already this good, what are you still trying to prove?"
Kazuki didn't answer right away. He walked to the wall, sat on the floor, back to the bag. Looked up at the skylight—nothing but black and static stars.
"I used to think it was about winning," he said after a moment. "Then I thought it was about surviving. Now?"
Haruto waited.
Kazuki's voice got quieter. "Now I think it's about remembering. What kind of man I wanted to be before the world started telling me what kind of man I had to be."
That hung in the air like dust.
"…You're weird," Haruto muttered, sitting down beside him.
"Yeah," Kazuki exhaled. "Guess I am."
---
Fight day.
Neon. Noise. The heat of bodies packed too tight in the arena. Smell of sweat, beer, floor polish, and anticipation. Cameras panned. Announcers screamed. The cage sat under the lights like a pit for dogs, and tonight, it had teeth.
Kazuki's robe was off. He stood barefoot on the mat, flexing his wrists. Breathing slow. Measured.
Opposite him: Vargas. Taller. Heavier. A brawler with a bad temper and too many sponsorship patches.
Kazuki barely registered him. He just stared past—into the noise, into the shadows. It wasn't nerves. It wasn't fear.
It was that calm. That quiet he always found before the first blow landed.
Then—
Bell.
Vargas came in fast. Heavy right. Kazuki slipped inside, liver shot. A clean one. Elbow guard up. Reset.
The crowd roared.
Kazuki flowed like water. Tight steps. Hips sharp. He wasn't the strongest fighter in the league, but he was the most technical—and the most unreadable. He didn't fight like someone trying to prove something.
He fought like someone who already knew the price.
Midway through the second round, something changed.
Kazuki felt it first in the spacing. The way Vargas feinted. Too far. Too slow. Telegraphed.
That's when the pain hit.
Not from the punch.
From inside.
His ribcage screamed. His vision shimmered, heat crawling up his spine.
What—?
Kazuki dropped back, arms instinctively high, but his legs—
His legs didn't listen.
He stumbled. Just for a breath. But Vargas saw it.
And pounced.
Hooks rained down. Shoulder pressure. Elbows aimed like hammers. The ref didn't call it. Kazuki's guard started to drop—
Not from fear.
From disconnect.
Like his body wasn't his.
"Move," he hissed to himself, blood in his mouth.
He rolled. Blocked. Stood—
Crack.
Vargas's knee caught him clean across the temple.
Not legal. Not clean. But the ref was slow, or paid, or both.
Kazuki hit the canvas hard. Lights spun.
One second.
Two.
His breath choked.
He couldn't feel his fingers.
The mat smelled like antiseptic and metal and old blood. Somewhere in the crowd, someone was chanting his name.
"Kazu! Kazu!"
But it was warbled now. Distant. Like through water.
He saw Haruto. Standing ringside. Eyes wide. Hand on the fence.
Kazuki tried to lift his head. Just a little.
He saw the lights.
And between them—
A shape.
Shadowed.
Tall.
Wearing a mask.
Not the ref. Not Vargas. Not anyone who should've been there.
Just watching.
Staring down.
Then—
Drip.
His vision blurred.
Drip.
He reached for the mat. For anything.
Drip.
And then the world tilted.
Drip.
And then he was no longer on the canvas.
---
The ninth time he died, he was standing.
Breathing hard. Legs weak. Blood running warm down the inside of his armor. His sword had snapped six minutes earlier, and he'd been using the jagged half like a fang.
Tadakatsu was already down. Mayu's scream was still echoing through the smoke. And the masked warlock—
He didn't speak. He never did.
Just raised a hand. And the cold came again.
It wasn't wind. It wasn't ice.
It was stillness. Real stillness. The kind that buried cities.
Kazuki's last thought, before the dark swallowed him, wasn't pain.
It was too early.
Then—
Drip.
His breath caught.
Tatami under his feet. Cold air in his throat. Candlelight flickering on the wall.
He was back.
Again.
Kazuki didn't move at first. Didn't speak. He just stared at the candle.
It hadn't melted much. Same scent. Same lean of wax. Same exact curve of shadow behind the flame.
Checkpoint.
This wasn't shock anymore. It was routine.
He rose slowly. Breathing in through his nose, out through his teeth. Familiar motion. The kind that used to calm him before fights.
It didn't work anymore.
He touched his face. No bruises. No swelling. The burn scar on his left arm was gone.
Loop Nine. He'd started counting after the third. The first two, he was too busy screaming.
Now he just remembered.
Every strike. Every death. The siege always came. The warlock always arrived. Tadakatsu always fell, bleeding into the mud. Mayu—
God, he didn't want to remember her dying again.
He turned from the candle. Began dressing.
No hesitation this time. No fumbling with buckles or cords. The body moved easier now. Younger. Strong. Just not his.
He still wasn't used to the face in the water bucket. Hideyoshi. That's what they called him here.
He didn't care.
Kazuki Arata was still underneath. Still looped into this place without warning or permission.
No gods. No prophecy. No reason.
Just blood, fire, reset.
---
He stepped into the corridor.
The floor was warm from firewood beneath. The paper walls still held shadows. Outside, a hawk cried into the pale light. Faint sounds of early armor prep drifted from the barracks.
Every loop, it started like this.
Mayu would appear near the council chamber with her reports. Tadakatsu would bring tea. The same routine, same words.
But the enemy changed. That's what made it worse.
Loop three, the archers moved early. Loop four, the mages came through the treeline. Loop nine—
Kazuki didn't know yet. But he'd find out.
Because if there was one rule to this curse, it was this:
The loop doesn't forgive you for learning slowly.
He reached the war table chamber. Paused.
The first time he'd stood here, he hadn't known anyone's name.
Second time, he tried to explain what was coming. No one believed him. They thought he was fevered. Maybe mad.
The third time, he ran. Got a spear in the spine for desertion.
Fourth loop, he fought. Better. Kept Tadakatsu alive. Mayu too, for a while.
Didn't matter. The warlock still came.
So now—loop nine—he would do it differently. Not louder. Not softer.
Smarter.
Kazuki inhaled. Let the cold sit in his lungs.
His fingers no longer trembled when he touched the hilt of the practice blade by the door.
He didn't know what triggered the resets. Maybe death. Maybe failure.
But he always came back here.
Tatami. Candlelight. Mountain wind.
And a second chance.
Always one more.
Until there wasn't.